Farewell, Scarlet A. We barely knew ye.
At Breed ‘Em and Weep, we have new Scarlet Letters. Bow your heads as we usher in the shame and the scandal of Jenn’s Red F. W. (Fake Woodstove) and Jenn’s Red S. (Shoes).
I appreciate the fierce loyalty of the comments surrounding Redgate: Should She Have or Shouldn’t She Have? Of course I do. It stung, to be accused of “showing off.” Holy cow. Ouch.
Living in a state of below-the-radar poverty is a bitch. There will always be people who second-guess you on that, if you dare identify yourself as someone who struggles financially, and very seriously so.
That’s why I posted the links to Heather Ryan’s articles. Her words resonate with me. I wish they didn’t, but they absolutely do.
I struggle a lot with what I’m allowed to expect out of life. I struggle a lot with what I’m supposed to be putting into this lifetime. I try to tell myself it’s not about the money, even as I stay up all night worrying about the money. I’m scared. I don’t feel safe. I thank God when hand-me-down clothes and shoes arrive for the girls from family and friends in real life, and friends I’ve made through this blog.
Maybe it is naive of me, but I think of all of you as friends out there. I really do. If that makes me folksy, so be it. The world could do with a little more smart-folksy, if you ask me.
Breed ‘Em and Weep isn’t the Huffington Post, Salon or Slate. I’m not Rush, Newt, Chris Matthews (who went to my grade school, BTW) or Ann. I don’t write to make anyone—on purpose—see red (other than the red of an electric heater, say, or some red shoes, the first formal shoes I’ve bought in years).
I don’t write to flaunt. I don’t write to stir up trouble. I hate pointless debates and mean assumptions.
Disclosure: My dear mother bought me two toilets last week because my two 1960′s-era toilets broke and I couldn’t pay for new ones myself. One has an elongated bowl FOR COMFORT. Raise your hand if you think that’s showing off. You do? Okay! My family will be using your toilets from now on, thanks. Hope you’ve got a good plunger! Hoo ha!
I write about my life as-is, and as it changes. Last week, my life happened to include a red fake stove that heats a room, and some red shoes. I opened my door so you could take a peek. Because I like you.
I write to you (and to me) because it’s what I know how to do.
I write because sometimes, it’s the only way I can manage to connect with other people in the span of a week. I’m slippery, but not by design or ruse. I just hurt. I do what I can to make myself better. It doesn’t always work.
I write to show myself that I was, in fact, here. That I am still here. Like it or not. I don’t always like being here. But the fact that I wore shoes to a wedding once makes it seem, well, more real.
I write because I hope someday these essays and posts will be something my daughters like reading, something that proves I was sitting up and paying attention to the life I was sharing with them when they were small. That I cared to pay attention to a few details along the way. And that I was pretty damn excited to figure out how to heat one room of the house better, in the middle of some crappy, cold times.
And the shoes? Well, just say There’s no place like home out loud five times, and you’ll see what I was going for on that purchase. If I had to buy shoes (and I did), I was going for ones that made me smile. I thought they’d make you smile too. A lot of us are chicks, man, and YES, A LOT OF US CHICKS LIKE TO LOOK AT SHOES.
Readers, in the midst of Redgate, let me say this: I really like you. I like you not because you always agree with me (and you don’t). I like you because you are struggling—every single one of you—in some way yourselves, and yet you take the time to write comments to me in the middle of your own difficult days or nights. I don’t always know how you are hurting, where your fault lines lie, but you are making the effort to connect.
Wow.
You make me want to connect as best as I can, too. I have some learning to do in that department.
The world is full of people analyzing, dissecting, rooting against each other. I’d rather have BEAW be a place where we’re all rooting for each other. I don’t mind naivete. I think the world can use more smart-naivete, along with smart-folksiness.
Your goodness moves me. Thank you. You give me hope about this world and the people in it. Again and again.
Most of you root for me when good stuff happens in the middle of the crap. I could never feign indifference to that. You write half of this blog with your comments. You make me think. You make me wonder who you are. You make it possible for me to take another step on some of the very worst days. Your kindness and humor and loyalty and friendship make me feel less alone in this life. I know I am not nearly alone—not by a long shot, there are many looking out for me and loving me—but there is a sadness at my core I can’t seem to beat.
If you were here, I’d make you hot chocolate and put you in front of my new fake flames. If you were here, I’d let you borrow my new red shoes, but I’m betting my feet are probably bigger than yours.
Anon: I’d let you borrow my red shoes if you wanted. I sure hate the implication of your Redgate comment, but I’d invite you over for hot chocolate too and try to figure out where you were coming from. (We’d have to start with you providing an actual email address. And you’d have to trust me to keep that private. I would.) While you were sipping your hot chocolate on my dog-furred couch, I’d take the opportunity to say, Hey, Anon, go easy on the next person you meet. Go gently. We are all hurting. The ones who smile the widest? They’re hurting the most. Don’t begrudge anyone a damn thing, ever.
If my children were going unfed and undressed so I could have shiny red shoes, yup, that would be a pretty lousy move on my part. You bet. I sort of hoped it was implied over the past three years of my writing this blog that I was a better mama than that. Even on my worst days as a mama, I think I’m doing better than that.
Readers: I smile whenever I see a new comment. I read everything you write. This fall and winter, I will be trying to build up my freelance client base again. I have some leads, some hopes. So I will be drinking sugar-free hot chocolate in front of my red electric heater with the fake flames, sitting with my laptop as I try to hunt and tap and peck out a new financial life for myself. And every day, in some way, I will be thinking of you. I know you are hunting and tapping and pecking too, and that warms me.
As for the cranberry electric heater thing, well, it heats 400 square feet, so I can turn the thermostat down to 60F during the weeks I don’t have my girls with me. The fake flames, they heat my heart. I wish you could see them. They have moxie! They have a sense of humor about themselves! They are infectious and totally unpretentious! I’m proud that I was able to manage my resources well enough for two months to get those fake flames, you betcha.
Believe you me, I wish more than anyone reading this that that red stove and those red shoes you saw meant that I was suddenly living high on the hog. (No lipstick, red or otherwise, involved.)
Not the case, yet. But if it ever becomes the case, I’d like to share that with you. And not feel the need to censor myself.
Hey.
I like your shoes too.
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